Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels
Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 12: Squealer's Wheels
The warehouse was pretty typical. Wide, long, low, made of corrugated metal, and largely held up by rust. There was a scrap of faded white paint on a wall – what was left of the number to tell this particular building apart from all its identically built neighbors. The few windows that existed were either filmed over or busted out. Through its front doors a vast emptiness beckoned, holding nothing but shadows and dim, natural light. It was the sort of building that a city native could expect to drive past about once every three days. Something would stir within them, something like regret, at the sight and then fade as they went about their day. If someone were to drive past this warehouse now, what they saw would not leave them for quite some time.
What was in front of this warehouse? A war zone. The front of the building was blocked, a semicircle of shabbily dressed men, women and a disturbing number of teenagers, all brandishing weapons ranging from planks of wood to oddly clean firearms. They cowered and took cover behind crates and boxes and in one case, a stack of K-rails. Behind this mob was a platform of crates, atop which ranted a man in a dirty black bodysuit. Purple lines had been shoddily painted across the body, and his eyes were covered by thick sunglasses. Skidmark, from this raised vantage point, exhorted his fellow cape and rumored lover to ever greater heights of destruction. In between anatomically impossible suggestions and floods of vulgarity he would gesture with his hands as the people around him threw whatever they could get their hands on. Violet light would catch these objects and accelerate them to near-bullet speeds, shooting them across the no man's land to pepper and harass the half-dozen heroes taking shelter behind a large, black truck.
Between these two embattled groups was something that, despite its terrible and improbable construction, was clearly a tank. A huge turret was mounted on what had, at one point, been four station wagons. Squealer had managed to connect a baffling number of things together to construct something far deadlier than anyone thought her capable of. After all this was over, it would be a safe bet that someone, somewhere, would be updating the Merchants' threat rating from whatever-it-was to one notch higher.
Taylor had dropped out of the Gearheads' truck a quarter-mile from the battle, insisting that she make her own way. The itchy feeling she'd come to associate with her Hunter instincts had all but demanded it, in fact, and she was glad for it. If she'd been pinned down, like the Gearheads now were, she would go from being useful to useless. That was something she wouldn't allow. Not ever again. She reached up to cue her radio, waiting for the thunder of Squealer's tank firing to fade before speaking. Despite her efforts, some indecision leaked into her voice. "This is Guardian. I'm free to move. What...what should I do?"
"Roger that, Guardian, glad to hear from you. We – hold on." Miss Militia had taken over radio duty, it seemed. Taylor wondered what could be occupying Armsmaster to the point of distraction when the obvious thundered another shot at the pinned heroes. Her eyes were keen, her reflexes keener, and she had managed to pierce the blur surrounding the object – just for a moment – to see a...bowling ball? It plowed a furrow into the concrete no-man's land before exploding in a spray of superheated ceramic shards. There was a follow-up sound, gears grinding, before the hatch atop the tank swung open and smoke began to billow out. "Seems we've been given a reprieve and we're going to capitalize, Guardian, so here's the plan: New Wave is going to hit the Merchant line hard while we go after Squealer's tank. Go signal for us is an amber laser. Got it?"
"Got it. Waiting for the signal. Guardian out."
She was beginning to really, really hate waiting. She was itchy – not Hunter itchy- just plain old uncomfortable. The urge to reach under her scarf to scratch her nose was becoming harder and harder to ignore, and the clothes beneath her costume were beginning to rub and chafe and cling in unwelcome ways. Thankfully, she was prevented from wallowing any further by a beam of amber light spearing through the clouds to hit Skidmark directly in the center of his chest. Though she didn't need it, sprinting forwards with burning blade in hand, in her ear came the shouted order from Miss Militia to "Go, go, go!"
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The first person to reach Squealer's tank was technically Armsmaster. She wasn't sure if a rocket-propelled halberd counted, though that did nothing to detract from the sheer efficacy of the weapon shearing into the turret's mount and, somehow, perhaps by fouling some mechanism, prevent it from turning. The vehicle could still turn, but it would have to be the slow way, rotating the whole thing instead of the turret. Going by that technicality, it was Miss Militia and Velocity who tied for second. From a weapon that looked far too similar to the one pointed at her not long ago, the heroine fired a grenade that arced smoothly across the pavement to destroy one of the tank's wheels. At the same time Velocity had reached the partner wheel to the recently destroyed one, a familiar circular device held in hand. He slapped it on the rim and blurred away. One, two, three seconds later and the wheel simply stopped spinning.
Thus, the only thing that Squealer's tank could now do was spin in a circle. Did that make it any less of a threat? No, as the assaulting heroes soon discovered. In the hastily welded and poorly riveted metal between the wheels opened a series of windows. From these windows came guns, and Merchants attached to them. Had Taylor neither been caught up in a might adrenaline rush nor running hell-bent for leather, she might have sighed. As it was, she poured on the speed, moving faster than she ever had, seeming to blink from one place to another. It was forty feet to the tank and closing fast. Armsmaster had produced another halberd and planted it in the ground with a shield somehow springing from the haft for people to take cover behind. It was a good idea, or at least it seemed to be, but...
Hadn't she been talking to Sabah about something similar to this? Keeping the bad guys on the back foot because you just refused to let up? She still didn't know what to call it, but she knew in her bones how valid it was. Maybe if she hadn't let up those few months ago, nobody would be here right now and the Merchants would be nothing but a memory. Or maybe not. Now was not the time for maybes, though she was about to stake her status as someone who'd never been shot on one. Her decision to pass the cover by was clinched by the sight of the hatch on top of the tank. Specifically, that it was still open. Beneath her mask, Taylor grinned a lupine grin. Then she ran past the heroes hiding behind Armsmaster's shield, took three long, loping steps, and hurled herself into the air.
Below and in front of her, the Merchants tried to adjust their aim to hit her, but they did not have the space. She'd been hoping for that, and felt an out-of-place rush of relief. Once she was inside the tank she could still get shot, after all. As she drew closer she could see some stubborn wisps of smoke escaping the open hatch. Distantly, as if from farther away than she was, cursing came to her ears. It was then drowned out by the sound of Taylor landing right where she wanted to: on top of the tank. She could see a head of filthy blonde hair beginning to emerge, the thick straps of some sort of goggle wrapped around the woman's skull. Taylor knew it was Squealer, and that there was no way she wouldn't be armed.
So, kid , John's voice rumbled in her mind, you got here. Now what?
That was the question. Luckily for everyone's chances of not getting shot, she had an answer: get in close and bring the hurt. Which was exactly what she did.
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She'd been right. Squealer did have a gun. It wasn't anything Taylor recognized, but her firearms education had been neglected of late. It was held in both of the Merchant's grimy hands and hummed faintly. There was a blinking series of dots running down the sides, red-red-blue, then red-blue-blue. She put it together when the dots went blue-blue-blue and Squealer pulled the trigger, chapped, cracked lips split in a snarl. There was a high-pitched whoosh and a boiling sphere of white fire spat from the gun's end. It wasn't a certainty, but Taylor had the sinking suspicion that if that ball of fire hit her, she'd be half the girl she used to be. There was just one problem. She couldn't move fast enough to dodge it.
That knowledge raked at her. That she'd defied safety to get up there, defied the odds to dodge those bullets, defied death itself almost six months ago, only for it to end because she wasn't fast enough.
Or was she?
There had been a moment, in the sprint earlier, where the world had blurred. The edges of her vision had turned white, and she'd assumed that it was due to the strain she was putting herself under. Maybe it was something else. Maybe. She reached within, touching her Light and feeling it stir. Not like when she ignited her knife, no. That was external, a channeling. What she wanted to do now was an internal thing, even though she didn't know how. But... you just might. Her Light spread through her, suffusing her limbs and, with the sound of thunder in her ears, she moved. Her vision went white, then blue, then Squealer was right in front of her. Behind the filmy plastic lenses glassy eyes widened. The whining charge of the gun beginning to charge grew louder. Taylor took half a second to be surprised at this newfound ability of hers before reminding herself where she was and kicking Squealer in the forehead. She took two steps past, following through on momentum, then spun, doing a little hop to drop into the tank's hatch right behind the reeling Merchant.
It was growing redundant of her to observe that any place holding a Merchant stank, yet it kept being true. Just inside the hatch was a sort of commander's platform with a chair and controls and a screen that she assumed showed where the turret was pointing. She and Squealer were standing on the chair. On either side of that, dropping off for about four feet, was a kind of crawlspace with a metal floor. The half-dozen Merchants were crouched at their windows, shooting and swearing out at the heroes. Beneath that? Wheels and stuff, Taylor presumed. From the corner of her eye she could see a length of blue metal extruding from beneath the command seat. She was surprised no one had heard her scuffle with Squealer until she noticed just how loud it was inside.
Speaking of...Squealer was shaking her head, looking back and forth to try and find her target before she realized that there was less space in that hatch than there had been before. Credit where it was due; the Merchant reacted quickly, spinning on her heel to try and bring the hard stock of her gun into Taylor's fragile, fleshy face. She checked the move by striking the other woman's elbow straight on with her palm, crossing over to grab a strap from Squealer's mask and pull. Instead of giving like cheap rubber or plastic, the thick strap held, pulling the head it was attached to along. Just as she had hoped. She switched their positions, using as much torque as she could to build up enough speed to force the gas-masked head into the hard plastic of the seat's headrest.
"You fuck!" Squealer's voice was rough and oddly deep. She was also not in any way out of the fight. While Taylor held her as still as possible, she squirmed and wormed and made enough of a nuisance of herself to produce a knife from her pocket. The only warning Taylor got was the slightest glint of bright metal before a hot line of pain was drawn down her side. Rage snapped through her, grinding her teeth and setting her lips into a snarl. By the scruff of her neck and the straps of her mask Squealer was lifted up and slammed hard into the tank's ceiling, then back down onto the chair. Once, and then again, until all fight left her.
Taylor touched a hand to her side, wincing at the motion's tug on her wound. That...well, that could have gone better. Squealer had been more tenacious than expected, and had extracted a price for being underestimated. Well. Lesson learned. The other six, who had somehow not noticed their boss getting taken out, would not even know she was coming.
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The first clue the Merchant had of her presence was the sharp point of her knife tickling his Adam's apple. The second was her threat, breathed into his ear. "Drop the gun or die." It wasn't exactly pleasant, being close enough to pick up the sweat, cigarette smoke, and general body odor issuing from him. But it worked. She felt, through the arm wrapped around his chest, the beating of his heart almost double. There was a moment of hesitation, almost like he was testing her, and the snarling urge to drive the blade home growled inside her. Then there was a quiet clatter as he shoved his weapon out the window and lifted his hands above his head. She patted his shoulder. "Good boy." She released him, wrapping one hand around his chin and palming the back of his head with the other. Then she slammed his forehead into the metal in front of them. Impact rang out, like an oddly clear gong, and he went slack in her grasp.
There came a shout from behind her, "Shit, a cape!" and without thinking Taylor threw herself backwards, falling flat and smacking her head on the floor just in time for the sound of a gunshot to thunder around the enclosed space. Not unlike the bullet, which snapped over her body, hit the far wall, scooped a dent into the metal, and rebounded. The sound was unlike anything she'd ever heard before, and had no words to describe. By sheer dumb luck the bullet ricocheted up into the fabric of the command chair. She couldn't let that happen again. Even if she was lucky enough to not get hit, the other seven people in the tank with her may not be. They were thugs and thieves and pushers, but they hadn't yet earned death.
An incredibly painful wound, on the other hand, wasn't out of the question. Which led her, for the second time that day, to throw her knife at the Merchant who had just tried to shoot her. It was an off-hand throw from where she lay flat on her back, but the stars aligned and the blade spun through the air to bury itself in the meat of his shoulder. He howled, dropping his gun to grasp at his newest, most metallic limb. Taylor rolled over twice, coming up on all fours before lifting her legs, taking all her weight on her locked arms, swinging her coiled legs out in front of her, and driving the balls of her feet into the Merchant's chest. Like dominoes those three fell in a tangle of limbs, shabby clothes, and blood. There wasn't quite enough space to somersault, but the weird crouching hop she pulled off brought her within punching range. Which she did – three quick whacks to three jaws, sending the recipients off into dreamland while she dealt with their fellows.
Or she would have, had the tank not chosen that moment to issue a guttural, grinding crunch and spew smoke all over the interior. Thick and oily, it moved like a living thing, curling tendrils around her shoulders and teasing pained tears from her sensitive eyes. She blinked as the engine, or possibly engines, died with a final rumble. In the quiet, the mumbled swearing of the three Merchants was deafening. They coughed and swiped at their burning eyes, guns forgotten beside them. Tension curled in her legs and arms, tightening her clenched fists until her scuffed knuckles turned white. She didn't know what snapped that tightly wound coil inside of her, but she sprang forward to descend on them in a flurry of punches and kicks. This was when something hit the tank fast and hard enough to flip the whole damn thing over. That put an end to the fighting, as well as her being conscious, pretty quick.
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There was only one heroic casualty, and it was her. Embarrassing did not begin to cover it. She was thankful that she could blame the red in her cheeks on the rather large knot at the base of her skull and not get too many questions for it. The thing that had hit the tank turned out to be Glory Girl, who managed to look both contrite and rather proud of the fact that she'd been able to flip something that big over in one go. When she had expressed this, Panacea had dropped her forehead into the palm of her hand. Taylor sympathized. Even in the short time she and Glory Girl had interacted – long enough for a rapidly delivered yet heartfelt apology – she got the impression that the Brute with the golden-blonde hair was as much a force of nature as she was a girl. Hurricane Glory, she mused, sitting on the bumper of an ambulance waiting for her turn to get checked over by Panacea. She hadn't wanted to, there was more work to be done in rounding up all the Merchants and getting them onto prison transports, but somebody had said the apparently magic word 'concussion' and that put a kibosh on any movement Taylor was allowed to do.
Which meant that she got a great view of the heroes, costumes perhaps a little less pristine than at the start, moving around and using extraordinary powers for mundane utilities. It was kind of funny to watch Velocity blurring around the clustered groups of sitting prisoners, dispensing handcuffs at great speed before going back to Miss Militia for more. While that was going on, Armsmaster had produced a cutting torch from somewhere on his armor and was cutting sections of the now ruined tank away for Manpower and Glory Girl to stack neatly on a flatbed truck. To the right of the ambulance that served as Taylor's bench, the prison transports that looked for all the world like gray school buses were being loaded up with handcuffed prisoners, all moving in single file. Standing at the door to each bus was Panacea, with Brandish acting as bodyguard, making sure each prisoner didn't have any internal injuries.
It was quite the production, and the fact that it was carried out with minimal shouting and only one instance of something being dropped – one of the tank's four engines – was a pleasant surprise. As she watched the independent hero groups came up to Dauntless, who was supervising, to give their reports and be on their merry way. First came the Gearheads, with a very scruffy looking truck and sweat soaked costumes. They shook the Protectorate hero's hand, got in the truck and drove away. Next came the Knights in Camo, who had been waylaid by a splinter group from Squealer's vehicle flotilla and had just finished wrapping things up. After delivering the location, and a fist bump from the Southie kid, they wandered off. Burnout came rumbling up on his bike, grinning widely beneath his visor, to tell Dauntless that "it had been real cooperating like this" and that "He'd never had so much fun".
In the depths of her head, she thought he was perhaps a little crazed. As he popped a wheelie and peeled out with a whoop, she amended that thought. He was crazy.
Reaper never reappeared.
Taylor had, after a while, tuned everyone else out to put her thoughts in order and, more importantly, decide how heavily she was going to edit today's events for her dad and Sabah. Sabah might understand, being a cape and having a grasp of the way this particular world worked. Her dad would have no such luxury. If she told him everything, especially how many times she was nearly shot, he wouldn't have kittens. No, he would have his very own pride of fully grown lions. Which meant that she could look forward to leaving the house again long after she died of old age. So caught up was she in her own hyperbolic thoughts that she didn't notice someone standing in front of her until they cleared their throat.
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The noise startled a surprised "Ah!" out of her, after which she coughed and cleared her throat because her voice was not normally that high. Or squeaky. After that, she looked up at who had approached, and not as far as she was expecting. So Panacea was short. Who knew? The healer's costume was more a burqa than anything, white and covering from head to toe, leaving only her hands bare and eyes visible. There was a red cross stitched neatly across her chest that made Taylor think of the Knights Templar. For a morbid moment it looked like a shroud. Then she saw the smile in Panacea's brown, tired eyes and the moment passed. Not knowing what else to do, Taylor waved. "Hi."
"Hello." Panacea sounded as tired as her eyes looked. "You draw the short straw?"
Her bottom lip went between her teeth for a moment. "I...don't really know what you mean." She made a liar of herself not a few seconds later. "Oh! Now I get it. Um, yeah. I guess I did."
A chuckle. "You're lucky. Last time it was Dauntless, and his injury was much worse. It –"
"We agreed, Panacea." Dauntless had wandered over and was wagging a disapproving finger. "We agreed to never speak of that. Or anything about that day. I like that agreement, let's stick to it."
Panacea laughed, genuine and loud, for a moment. "Well, since you asked so nicely. Now, you're interrupting me. Shoo!"
Dauntless held up his hands in surrender. "Far be it from me to slow you down, Speedy." He backed away for a few paces, before turning to go do something else. When Taylor met Panacea's gaze after that, they seemed less tired, more lively. Beneath her scarf, she smiled a small, impressed smile. Clever man.
"Sorry about him." The healer was saying. "He hasn't found a conversation he didn't mind interrupting. So, uh...normally I ask permission to heal people – it's a legal thing, I don't know the details, but since I don't think you actually need it..." she shrugged. "How about I just give you a check-up?"
She moved her mouth from side to side, thinking. "Will it take long? I have to get home soon."
"Less than a second."
"Oh. Fire away."
Panacea held out her hand, palm up. Taylor wriggled hers out of its glove, letting it fall to the pavement, before dropping her sweaty, grimy, slightly bloodied hand into the one offered. There was a long pause, then. "Huh."
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